Carla Neggers - The Mist

And perfectly natural, he thought with a small smile.

She needed sleep and time to recover from her ordeal, and he needed a few hours to chase back the ghosts and remember why he was here, now, in Lizzie Rush’s suite in Dublin. His physical reaction to her only complicated matters.

He could have easily carried her in here and made love to her.

He could hear David Mears and Philip Billings teasing him about his love life. “You’re a lone wolf, Will,” David had said; he had been a stocky, hard-drinking man with a wicked sense of humor. “Heaven pity the poor woman who falls for you.”

Philip, a formidable ladies’ man but who had lately fallen for one of Arabella’s friends back in London, had hooted in agreement. “And heaven pity you when you meet your match, because such a woman won’t be like any you have in mind. She’ll knock you on your arse, and we’ll be there, Mears and me, saying we told you so.”

Will pulled back the duvet on his bed and climbed in.

The sheets, too, smelled of lavender.

Off the coast of Massachusetts

1 a.m., EDT

August 26

Abigail had just started to play pool when Estabrook and the Brit-Fletcher-entered her stateroom. She’d slept fitfully before giving up, deciding she preferred to stay awake and alert. Estabrook wore a porkpie hat and yachting attire that might make a casual passerby less likely to recognize him, but he’d had his face plastered in the media for weeks while people speculated why a self-made billionaire would take up with ruthless criminals. Abigail had made a point of memorizing his face after he’d threatened to kill Simon and her father.

Fletcher calmly grasped the pool cue in her hands. She relinquished it without a struggle. “I’m not very good, anyway-at pool. You’re right in thinking I could do some damage with the cue.”

He said nothing as he set the cue aside.

Estabrook smirked at her. “I see your black eye’s blossomed, Detective. Have you slept?”

She decided to answer. “A little.”

“As much as I relish your father’s suffering, I regret seeing you suffer. You’re in pain, and you’re frightened.”

Abigail wanted to kill him. “You should let me go. Release me and give up the people who actually set the bombs. It wasn’t you. You were in Montana.”

Of course, since he’d hired the men who’d carried out the attacks, he was ultimately responsible. There’d be no deal. He hadn’t beamed himself east. There’d be a trail, and her colleagues in law enforcement would pick it up and follow it to her. She trusted them. In the meantime, she had to stay alive and do what she could to throw Estabrook off balance and keep him there.

He thrived on risk and wouldn’t rattle easily.

“Don’t play me for a fool, Detective. May I call you Abigail?” He smiled, having fun with her.

“Sure. Why not?”

“Have a seat,” he said.

She shrugged and started for the sectional on the wall.

“Not there.” Estabrook smiled nastily and pointed to the metal chair his men had tied her to earlier. “There.”

Abigail made herself keep her eyes on him. “Suit yourself.”

Fletcher stood back, quiet, observant, and she passed him and sat down, stretching out her legs and crossing her ankles. During her hours alone, she’d done yoga to loosen up after having sat in one position for so long. “If you give yourself up,” she said, addressing Estabrook, “I’ll tell my friends you’re not the one who smacked me in the face.”

“Do you think I care?”

“You will when they catch up with you.”

He leaned against the pool table and put his hands on either side of him, gripping the edge as he gazed down at her. “Your father put Simon up to betraying my trust and friendship, but they’ve failed. Here I am, a free man.”

Abigail yawned. “Bugs you, doesn’t it, that the feds used you to get to bigger fish? You’re not happy being a little fish. You knew exactly what you were doing when you hooked up with drug traffickers, but it never occurred to you they were a bigger deal than you were.”

Estabrook smiled, as if he was reading her mind and drawing strength from her fear.

Let him. She’d have her chance. “So what happened today?” She kept her voice matter-of-fact. “Your guys screwed up. Did they not know my father and Simon were in Boston?”

“I hired professionals,” he said, an edge in his voice. “I gave them free rein to make decisions based on their best judgment. I operate that way in everything I do. Micromanaging is a sign of weakness.”

“They were on their way to see me-Dad and Simon.” She said “Dad” deliberately and saw Estabrook’s reaction, the gleam of fury in his eyes, the thinning of his mouth. She didn’t let herself react to his hatred. “If your guys had better intel and had just waited a few minutes…” She sighed. “But, no. They pulled the trigger on their bomb and grabbed me.”

Estabrook breathed in through his nose. “I wish I could have been there when Simon and your father arrived to smoke, fire and blood.”

“Your guy’s blood. He dripped on the sidewalk.”

Fletcher remained impassive, but she could see she’d gotten to Estabrook. He stood up from the pool table, his hat crooked on his head. “You’re not half as clever as you think you are, Detective.”

She ignored him. “I was home all morning, and Scoop went down to his garden early. He’s trying to stay ahead of the harvest. I figure your guys planted the bomb sometime before this morning. Overnight? Yesterday? I guess it could have been anytime. There were two explosions. The second was my gas grill, right? Haven’t used it in weeks.”

“All moot now, my dear,” Norman said.

“True, but I have to think about something besides my testimony at your trial. Your guys could have hit the trigger anytime, but they didn’t. Why wait?”

“Synchronicity.”

“Ah. You wanted to time everything with your release.”

“Why were you meeting Simon and your father?”

“To discuss you,” she said coolly.

Estabrook seemed to like her answer. He moved in front of her and leaned in close, his eyes puffy, bloodshot under the broad rim of his hat. “You bear a strong resemblance to your father. I see him in the shape of your mouth, your nose. It can’t have been easy growing up with such a man. Do you blame him for your husband’s death?”

“No.”

“Christopher Browning was an FBI special agent. Your father wasn’t director then, but he was very powerful. He’s kept secrets from you, hasn’t he?”

“Everyone has secrets. You, for instance. Your secret? You know you don’t measure up. You’ve known since you were a scared little boy.” Abigail swallowed, felt a twinge of nausea. She’d never done well being cooped up, never mind on a boat. “You’re still that scared little kid inside. It’s nothing to hide from. Let me go and stop this before you can’t turn back. Before someone ends up really hurt.”

She could see he’d tuned her out. He stood up straight and reached for a pool cue, a fresh one, not the one she’d used. “Until this summer, you had no idea your father was a surrogate father to Simon.” Estabrook turned to her knowingly. “Did you, Detective?”

“No, I did not.”

“Brendan Cahill and your father were friends. He was a DEA agent in Colombia. He was murdered when Simon was fourteen.”

“I imagine you’re real familiar with the DEA and FBI.”

His grip on the pool cue tightened visibly. “Your father saw to Simon for twenty years, and you had no idea. So many secrets, Detective. So many secrets your father has.”

“My father stayed in contact with a boy who’d lost his own father and tried to help out when he could. It wasn’t a secret. I just didn’t know about it. Simon’s a great guy and a fine FBI agent. A lot of your criminal colleagues are being rounded up and arrested thanks to him-and you and your cooperation with the feds.” Abigail gestured to her plush surroundings. “Is that what this is about? Are you getting away from them? Trying to convince whoever’s left among your drug-cartel friends that you’re dead? Are you afraid they’ll come after you?”